Safe With You

It's Okay To Be Vulnerable

~Greyson~

The whisky burns a little on the way down. Good. I need it to.

It’s late — past ten — and the house is quiet except for the low murmur of the record player in the background. Winston’s sprawled on my sofa, shoes off, tie loose, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, while Markus nurses a beer on the armchair opposite me.

They’ve been here all of half an hour and have already dissected every possible meaning behind Alyssa turning up at my office earlier today.

But this time, I can’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“She told you everything?” Markus asks quietly, eyes steady on me.

“Everything,” I say, staring into my glass. “Or enough of it.”

The silence stretches. Winston finally looks up. “She really opened up to you?”

I nod. “Yeah. About her ex. The night she ended up in hospital. How she thought she’d lost the baby.”

“Bloody hell.” Winston exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… heavy.”

“It’s more than heavy,” I mutter. “It’s brutal. And she just sat there and told me — not for sympathy, not for pity — just because she needed me to understand why she is the way she is.”

Markus leans forward. “And you do, don’t you?”

“I do.” I pause, setting the glass down. “It broke her, Markus. But she still built something extraordinary out of it. She’s fierce, but she’s terrified. She’s spent years surviving, not living.”

Winston whistles low. “You sound gone, mate.”

I shoot him a look. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” he says with a smirk. “That’s what’s terrifying.”

Markus laughs, but it’s soft, understanding. “You care about her.”

“I do,” I admit. “More than I expected to. When she told me everything, I just… wanted to fix it. But that’s not what she needs.”

“No,” Markus agrees. “She needs to feel safe — not saved.”

“Exactly.” I run a hand through my hair. “And I told her that. I promised I’d never hurt her or Quinn. I meant it.”

Markus’s voice softens. “You’ve always meant what you say, Grey. But remember — trust takes time. Especially for someone who’s been through that kind of hell.”

“I know.”

Winston raises his glass, grin returning. “Well, I’ll say this — I like her. She’s got fire. She’s not scared to stand toe to toe with you, and God knows you need that.”

Markus chuckles. “I’ll second that.”

I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head. “You two are impossible.”

“Maybe,” Winston says, “but we’re right.”

The laughter fades, and for a while, we sit in comfortable silence — three brothers, the night humming softly around us.

I look out towards the back garden, the faint glow of the patio lights casting long shadows across the grass.

“I’m going to make this work,” I say quietly.

Neither of them answers, but Markus lifts his beer, Winston his whisky, and both clink their glasses in silent agreement.

~Alyssa~

By the time Quinn’s asleep, the house is quiet — that rare kind of calm that makes you notice the tick of the clock and the hum of the fridge.

I’m curled up on the sofa in my pyjamas, laptop open, half-working, half-pretending I’m working, when Kelsi’s name flashes across my screen.

Perfect timing.

I hit “accept,” and her face fills the screen — hair up, glass of wine in hand, wrapped in what looks suspiciously like a designer dressing gown she “borrowed” from the office sample rack.

“Well, well,” she says, smirking. “If it isn’t London’s most mysterious fashion mogul. Spill. How did lunch with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Devastatingly Handsome go?”

I roll my eyes but can’t stop the small smile tugging at my lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re avoiding the question. So? How was it?”

I exhale, sinking further into the cushions. “It was… honest. I told him everything, Kels.”

That gets her attention. Her expression shifts instantly from teasing to soft. “Everything?”

I nod. “About that night. About ending up in hospital. About thinking I’d lost Quinn.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment. Just lets me breathe. That’s why she’s my best friend — she knows when to talk and when to just be there.

“And how did he react?” she finally asks.

“Not how I expected,” I admit. “He didn’t pity me. Didn’t try to fix it. He just… listened. Really listened. Then he promised he’d never hurt me or Quinn. That he’d never walk away.”

Kelsi smiles, but it’s the kind that makes your chest ache. “And do you believe him?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I want to. God, I want to so badly. But part of me keeps waiting for something to go wrong. Because it always has.”

“Alyssa,” she says gently, “you’ve been in survival mode for years. It’s okay to be scared of peace — it’s unfamiliar. But you’re allowed to let someone in. You don’t have to keep fighting battles that ended a long time ago.”

My throat tightens, tears threatening again. “It’s just… what if I let him in, and he leaves? What if he hurts Quinn?”

Kelsi reaches offscreen and picks something up — a framed photo I know she’s stolen from my desk. She holds it up to the camera.

It’s from our movie night — me, Greyson, Quinn, and Poppy all curled up on the sofa. The girls are laughing, popcorn everywhere, and Greyson’s arm is around the back of the couch, his hand almost touching mine.

“You see this?” she says softly. “That’s not a man who’s going anywhere. That’s someone who’s already home.”

A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.

Kelsi smiles knowingly. “Let him in, Alyssa. Even just a little. You don’t have to hand him the keys to your walls — just open the door a c***k and see what he does.”

I laugh weakly, wiping my eyes. “You always know what to say.”

“I know,” she says smugly. “It’s my best quality. That and my hair.”

We both laugh, and for the first time in days, I feel light again.

When the call ends, I set the laptop aside and stare at that photo — the four of us, messy and imperfect and happy.

For years, happiness felt like something that belonged to other people.

Now… it’s starting to feel like maybe it could belong to me too.

I reach for my phone, fingers hovering over Greyson’s name, tempted to text him. To say thank you. To say goodnight.

But instead, I just smile, whispering into the quiet,

“Maybe tomorrow.”